Pepperpot
by SpunSilk
Summary: Kolchak: The Night Stalker story. One-shot. "Are you a god–" he asked. "–or a monster?" My eyebrows raised. Not a question I've been often asked. Hmmm. I didn't answer right away, but considered. "Neither nor, last time I checked." I answered cautiously...


**Carl is not mine, but I'm borrowing him for this story. **

*****Before reading this story, it is best to have read _Lodestone_. *** Please take the time to read that story first.**

**Pepperpot**

**by SpunSilk**

* * *

I reclined back onto my dead green couch with a sigh and a bourbon. I was bone-tired.

Three weeks of digging in the latest political corruption scandal. I won't bore you with the details, they're always the same anyway. You know the outline –fresh new guy campaigns on honesty and uprightness; public (ever optimistic and hopeful) puts him in office; then when he gets a taste of power, his ambition and ego grow; till the guy in the end believes he's above the law. Sometimes I think the Free Press –God love it– is the only defense we have against society itself sliding down that long, steep slope. I was fatigued; tired of the story, tired of politics, tired of _people_. I had to be careful; if I spent too much time around these self-righteous, pompous types... well, I may just have to become a _cynic_ in my old age. I kicked off my shoes and loosened my tie. A few clicks on the remote pulled up just what the doctor ordered: Louie Armstrong's trumpet flowed down on me like a heavy blanket and eased my pains.

It couldn't have been more than a half hour before it all started. I _smelled_ it before anything else. The inside of my schnoz started to tingle. I sneezed, rubbed my nose hard with my forearm and turned my attention back to the burn of the bourbon and the welcome relief the jazz offered from my small stereo. But the tingle persisted and was joined by a bitter "feel" in the air. I glanced around to see if a source presented itself, but none did. I didn't investigate yet at that point, but rather left my tired bones at peace on the sagging couch and enjoyed the alcohol lending me its illusion of happiness.

When it started to transform itself into the smell of _smoke_, on the other hand, I was out of my seat in a hurry. This old building was an accident waiting to happen. I scanned the room. I could see my whole castle from where I stood there and saw nothing amiss, one quick check of the adjoining john showed the same there. As I turned back to the big room, the smell was noticeably stronger. It didn't smell like wood smoke, exactly, it was scented somehow... but it was unmistakably smoke. I bounded to the door and, after checking with my flat hand to feel whether or not the door was hot, opened it and checked the hall. Nothing. And the air out there was scent-free. Reassured with that at least, I closed it again and went to my single window to check the night air outside the building. Cool and still; well, as still as it ever gets in this part of town. Nothing amiss.

I closed it again and turned back to the room. That's when I saw it.

A shaft of blue light was piercing my abode from ceiling to floor in the middle of the room. I froze. The tingly-smoke smell was even stronger now. But if this... phenomena was the source of the smoke smell, at least it didn't seem to be fire. As odd as it sounds, I relaxed somewhat.

So there we stood, the shaft and I, neither moving. My mind switched instantly from tired-of-politician-weariness into Odd-Stuff-survival-mode. What did I have available? My crucifix was under the pillow way over on my bed. My Mojo bag was hanging on the light bulb in the john. My bat was well beyond the shaft, at its station by the door. All I had near me was a small pile of dirty dishes in the tiny sink –forks, yeah great. I had access to a few forks– and an exit plan which consisted of a window behind me that held a three-story drop. That's what I had... that, and my wits.

The blue shaft was joined in the middle of the room by a yellow shaft close by it, and parallel. A purple shaft faded into view as well. I waited, breathing only shallowly, heart pounding like a drum solo. I stood there frozen a good five minutes, but nothing else happened. I heard nothing, but the smoke/bitter/effervescent smell remained strong. In the end, curiosity took over, and I slowly extended my hand out toward it. The shafts wavered slightly in the room, like they were moving under water, but then settled back to their positions. I puzzled.

Eventually, I started taking cautious steps toward the colors. They were translucent, incredibly intense, and in a word, beautiful. But what were they? And what the hell were they doing in my room? As I cautiously approached them, all three slowly began _bending_ away from me. Startled, I retreated; they straightened once more. Oh shit. I knew what these were. Ether.

"Chimmeken?" I snarled. No response. "Kobold! Chimmeken!"

I surveyed the entire room. All was in order, but I knew that –unseen by my eye or any human eye– there were uncounted stripes of color passing through every inch. The Ether. Where 'all the the Levels have access'. I had seen it only once, for all of three minutes. But it had left me with the humbling view of being a very small person in a very large universe I knew even less about than I had always figured.

The tingly smoke smell was getting stronger yet, to the point where I started to feel dizzy. I considered leaving the room to clear my head. But the shafts stood resolutely in the way. Plus I didn't _want_ to leave. I was curious as hell.

As I stood watching, a form started appearing just behind the shafts. It pulled itself into focus as it stepped forward through the colors. I took a step back in surprise. A man, a big one, stood in my room. Out of nowhere. He was muscular, brown-skinned with high cheekbones and had his jet-black hair in a short pageboy cut. But the hair was almost covered by a fantastical headdress made of the most amazing brightly colored feathers. He was naked except for a loin cloth of rough weave, and had crude symbols painted on his skin in a blackish paint or mud. Amulets hung in layers from his neck and he carried a gourd on a cord around his neck, also decorated thick with symbols, that leaked a greenish smoke. That, and a robust machete that hung across his broad chest that appeared to be about 3 foot long.

I nonchalantly picked up a fork from the sink.

We stood frowning at each other for a long time, looking each other up and down, each of us seeming to try to make sense of the other. Was what I wore was as odd to him as his get-up was to me? In the end, he spoke first. His language was thick and dark, punctuated with lots of consonants. At the same time he spoke them, I 'heard'. his meaning between my ears.

"Are you a god–" he asked. "–or a monster?"

My eyebrows raised. Not a question I've been often asked in life. Hmmm. I watched his eyes scan the empty air around me. Yeah, this guy could see the Ether and the magnetic force lines I carry against my will. I didn't answer right away, but considered.

"Neither nor, last time I checked." I answered cautiously.

He brought the gourd up in his hands to his mouth and cupping it, blew tenderly into it. Then he breathed in the green smoke deeply. His eyes rolled back into his head for a second, then he released the gourd and focused again on me. "What kind of creature-being are you then?"

"What kind do you think?" I asked non-commitally, probing for information.

"A Seeker?" he asked. I held him with a steely stare that showed more confidence than I actually felt, unable to keep from frowning at the massive knife slung casually across his chest. I offered no answer. "No? A Conduit?"

"What do you mean to say with 'conduit'?" I asked with just enough belligerence to cover the fact that I really _did_ want an answer.

"The Colors themselves crown you."

"They do."

He waited expectantly, respectfully, but I wasn't about to show that I knew diddly-squat about the Ether, and I said nothing. "What my father's father spoke is confirmed-true. The Colors offer much that is not understood by mortals." he spoke sadly. "The question of the cat has been posed. Give me your guidance-council, then." He raised his eyebrows expectantly and waited.

Question? Cat? I was taken by surprise. "I got no advice for you."

"I must have council. If you have come from the colors, it doesn't matter to me what you may be, you must have guidance-council to give."

"I haven't come 'from' _anywhere_, pal. I live here! _You_ came to _me_!"

He looked confused, then became agitated. "I will receive council now, or will _not_ exit the Colors, although it kill me!" he declared through gritted teeth. I believed him, too. I took another step back. "How am I to protect the tribe? This is my burden. My knowledge-magic alone has not been enough!" The shafts of color behind him tinged orange.

"Well, I'm here to tell you I'm no expert on _cats_!"

His anger grew. "The spells my father and my father's father taught me are empty words against this. The herbs from my mother's Great Wisdom help not! I have tried _all_ the Wisdoms and still more die. Am I to stop trying? No! And no! I have prepared the Pepperpot for the dreaded smoke-and-colors. I have _not_ refused for fear. I have done what is required, and I _will_ _have_ _council_." His dark face shone with anger and anguish. The shafts were now a bright red.

Spunk. I admire spunk. "Okay, okay, settle down," I said. "Look, I don't know anything about you, what good would any advice from me do you? I don't even know where you're from!"

"My people live on the Great River," he responded, thrilled to be getting somewhere at last. "where the River of the Jeweled-Bird-of-the-Yellow-Tail enters it. There in the jungle are my people."

"Uh-huh." That helped me _nada_. "And you're their medicine man?"

"Shaman. By line and by skill. What council do you offer on the jaguar-cat?"

I blinked at him. "What cat?" The smoke from his gourd was making me dizzy.

"This problem!" He gestured in front of himself.

"I don't see any problem."

He gawked at me. "This is _not_ natural. This is _new_. Jaguar-that-kills-without-scratching. You _cannot_ claim there is no problem!" He glared. "I _require_ council on the dead-turned pale!"

"Well, I don't know about your problem. It seems we've reached an impasse."

He hesitated. "Will you... exchange names with me?"

"Sure."

"I am called 'Oxmelsa'." he spoke formally.

"I go by 'Kolchak'."

"Kolch'ak", he tasted the strange word and again blew gently on the smoldering fire in the gourd and breathed in the green smoke deeply. Then he extended his empty hands toward me as if he were offering me something, with his head down he added in a hushed tone, "My... _true_ name is...Mah'at-ek-ohnapat."

Huh. This was significant. I had heard of this sort of thing on another story I did about a tribe of Native Americans once years ago; each tribe member had one name for common use, and one magical name kept guarded for reasons that made sense only to their religion. Having given up my true name too easily, and thinking fast, I said importantly; "You don't need to know my true name." Oxmelsa immediately removed his weapon – breaking the substantial twine that held it in place with a quick jerk of his massive arm. I tensed and grasped the tiny fork harder, but he placed the machete quickly on the floor between us, and kneeling onto the floor with one knee, pushed it toward me with both hands, averting his eyes from my gaze.

He spoke in a woeful tone, "I kneel before you powerless!"

"_What?" _The non-sequitur threw me. This man with the obvious strength and grace of a Bengal tiger was on the floor in front of me in an clear attitude of submission. "Stand up, fool!" I said, uncomfortable. He complied. "I'm a _man_, just like you – don't go kneeling in front of your equals!"

He stared at me with wide eyes. "Man? If you are a just a man, where is your Pepperpot?"

"I don't _use_ a pepperpot."

"You enter the colors _without_?" he asked in honest amazement, sinking a bit in the knees. "What high magic is this?"

"No magic!" I insisted. "Like I said: just a man!"

"Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name; if you are a man, one who walks like I do on the plants-of-the-ground, and natural – take of the smoke." He lifted the gourd-necklace over his head and held it out to me. I eyed it suspiciously for a moment, but then leaned forward, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

The fumes hit my brain like a freight train, not to mention what it felt like inside my nose. I coughed and staggered a bit, but when I opened my eyes – that's when I understood. The Ether was filling the entire room for me now.

"I get it now! You're high!" I accused.

He shook his head. "Not a High Shaman, just a shaman, but my tribe has no other. I have entered the Trance-of-the-Colors, though it terrifies me."

It was terrifying me, too, if I were honest. I watched in amazement as my 'eyesight' slowly expanded out past the walls of my room to include the adjacent apartments, the floor below mine and the roof above as well, all physical things and persons pierced smoothly and beautifully by shafts of color. The shafts going through Oxmelsa had settled down again and showed a rainbow of colors. The Ether filling all space was a_ll_ colors, with things unseen to the eye moving gracefully through it all like thick soup. I felt my consciousness move up to a higher level, an _uncomfortable_ one. I didn't have the range that the kobold had let me glimpse, but it was enough to make my cage of bent colors –my magnetic force lines– appear, together with my aura – the aura that every living creature radiated with its distinctive color, overtones, and 'feel'. Mine, like I had seen the time before, extended out some two feet around me. Oxmelsa's aura was visible now as well, strong and deep evergreen in color–

Holy Crow.

His matched mine.

He watched the amazement on my face. "Now we see-together." he said. "My father's father said the Colors have guidance-council. Terrors also; but council for the true-heart. You came here when I called out in my distress. You will give me answer to my not-knowing."

It's hard to concentrate while your brain is taking in that much. I stared at him like a dumb fish. Getting your mouth to work while your world view is physically and dimensionally expanding is irksome. For a while, breathing alone was almost more than I could handle. But finally the expansion slowed and seemed to level off at a plateau. Just as I started to find my sea-legs, though, it started again –around Oxmelsa.

Starting close to him and slowly expanding away in all directions, a different room started to present itself. Not clearly, more like super-imposed over what I was 'seeing' of my own room. I was seeing both at once, in the same space. Like I say, not comfortable. He was standing in a sparse hut with a dirt floor, pierced smoothly and beautifully by the color shafts of the Ether just like my room. A number of magical-looking ornaments hung on the walls –a few of which even radiated weak auras of their own in various colors– and thick strings of plants and exotic seed-pods hung over his head in the thatch. Over _our_ heads in the thatch. I stood with him.

My overwhelmed mind started to sort things out. I wasn't really there, any more that he was really in my room. We were just communicating with each other through the Ether 'where all the Levels have access'...

A few feet in front of him was a raised pallet with a figure on it. I looked down at it and in spite of everything else my mind was dealing with, my heart sank.

"Oh, friend." I squatted down next to it. "I get it now," It had been a shapely young girl, lovely, innocent. Now she lay naked and stiff and pale. No wounds to be seen except ––two fang punctures on the neck. I wanted to vomit. "Your people have never seen someone die like this before?" I asked quietly.

"Never, Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name."

"When did the first victim appear?"

"Three moons ago."

I dreaded the next question. "How many, Oxmelsa?"

His frown went well beyond his mouth to include his eyes and brow. "The count was three-and-twenty," his voice cracked. "when I secluded myself to prepare for the Smoke-and-Colors. I fear it be more than that by now."

I nodded gravely. "More of them falling these last days, than in the beginning?"

"Yes! Yes, just as you say!" his eyes were wild with anticipation of an explanation from me.

One had entered the jungle and found them. Damn! All those innocents. With no European folk knowledge to call on, this poor tribe would be sitting ducks. I looked up at him. Poor guy! His physical strength, formidable as it was, wasn't going to help him at all in this next challenge that awaited him. I wondered; did he have what it takes to fight this? Did he have the _gristle_ it takes? This guy was trying to save his tribe from things he didn't understand. There _was_ a reason we were brought together – I _could_ give council. I more than another.

"Then I got some bad news or you..." I began the explanation.

I told him. I told him about the age of the thing, about the reason it killed, about why the victims appeared so pale. I spoke of incredible strength, of the stink, of the lack of damage bullets – well, spears and machetes– would do it since it was dead already. I spoke of the dark of night and the light of daybreak, of daytime dormancy. I showed him my Crucifix from under my pillow, I even described garlic although he said they had no such herb. I told of native earth and showed him a stake and mallet I keep on hand as well in my place –for the _need,_ if need be.

"And this is _important_; the same has to be done to _every_ _one_ of the victims... before they rise up. Think of it like a... a sickness that can move from one person to another. It spreads. It multiplies. Even after they're dead."

Oxmelsa's eyes were wide as he thirstily drank in my words. I didn't envy him. I felt an emotion I seldom feel at that point –empathy. Empathy right down to my gut. Here was somebody else, facing what I have faced. In his own little part of the world, using the methods he knew, or could learn from any resource at his disposal.

"We will find the vam-pyre. We will destroy this danger-enemy to the people."

"I believe you will, friend." I smiled at him. "Get started. I'm going to go over and open the window of my room. You know; air it out. You should get outside of this hut and get yourself some fresh air, too. I'm thinking that will make the colors fade for both of us and we can get on with thinking with our physical brains."

He nodded. "The Old Wisdom prescribes seven days of rest, isolation, and meditation after seeing the Colors... but I feel I must act on this much sooner. I will force my way back to my people. I have much to do."

"Your people have a wise shaman. Good luck."

"Thank you for your council-guidance," he said, laying both his palms flat on his chest, "Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name. I will teach others what you have told me, in case I fall in the doing of this."

I nodded. "That's prudent. As I said, a wise Shaman." And before I turned to make my way through the vision of his hut over to my window, I added one more thing.

"By the way, _my_ true name... is _Carl_..."


End file.
